


Don't Fear

by TheMightyChipmunk



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, M/M, Minor Character Death, Not too much, and a lot of cursing, but its who they are, i dont think its too graphic?, i know that's not a real tag, like super minor, reaper!Combeferre, reaper!Courfeyrac, reaper!Enjolras, sex evenutally, some minor drug references, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMightyChipmunk/pseuds/TheMightyChipmunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a reaper and after realizing he's never going to forget him, Grantaire is willing to do anything he can to see him again. Even if he doesn't know exactly why he can see him at all. </p><p>Based on this tumblr post I saw (http://thewheelsonthebusgofuckyourself.tumblr.com/post/80898684587/grandpacain-twobearsforever-movie-about-a?utm_medium=email&utm_source=html&utm_campaign=post_text&utm_term=reblog_name) </p><p>(whoa that link was longer than i thought it would be)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

              Grantaire first saw him when he was fifteen. In terms of meet-cutes, it probably wasn’t the most conventional one, but it worked for Grantaire. He’d been out with Eponine and they were driving back from Bahorel’s place late at night. Neither of them were particularly excellent drivers to begin with, considering the fact they were both below the legal driving age, so couple that with a long, dark mountain road and a bottle of Jack and Coke and Eponine wasn’t exactly driving ‘safely’. They’d meant to leave before dark, to make it easier on everyone (including themselves, since missing curfew wasn’t exactly looked upon kindly by either of their parents), but they’d gotten distracted lying in the bed of ‘Parnasse’s truck and watching the storm clouds slowly begin to roll out. However, they were plagued with that idiotic invincibility that all teenagers feel at least once in their lives and, thus they didn’t think twice about safety as they cranked Def Leppard and drove down the wet roads to their respective houses. Well, they didn’t give it much thought until they were spiraling out of control and inevitably wrapped around a tree. All Grantaire remembered specifically was a blur of red and black and then light and a blinding pain as he opened his eyes to the havoc around him. He looked over at Eponine and groaned. Her arm was sticking out at an unnatural angle and blood was spilling from both her head and her side. His side of the car was manageable, so he pushed the door open, screaming out in pain when he tried to step out of the car. He looked down and saw his leg was bleeding profusely as it had previously been lodged between his chair and the dashboard and apparently he didn’t pull it out correctly.

                “Eponine?” he croaked as he reached over to undo her seatbelt and try to pull her out, “‘Ponine can you hear me?” she groaned softly in response but didn’t move or speak, so any reassurance was quickly flushed out of Grantaire and he felt panic about to set in. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest. Placing his hands just underneath Eponine’s arms he put all his strength into lifting her out. He screamed out in pain again, the twist he had to make at his waist apparently not conducive to productivity when half of you is broken. Still, he somehow drew on some previously unknown reservoir of strength and managed to tug her out of her seat and into his lap. She wasn’t a particularly heavy person whatsoever, considering she probably had three meals a week, but she was all dead weight and Grantaire was broken, drunk, and just as malnourished as she.

                “Let’s get the hell out of here, ‘Ponine.” He grumbled, knowing she couldn’t hear him but needing to pretend. The door creaked painfully loud as he pushed it forward and he tried to think of the best way to get them out. He only had use of one leg and Eponine was no help. He settled on pushing forward with his right leg and just propelling himself out. Pain laced through his whole body when he landed on the ground with a loud grunt and a notably unmanly squeal. He rolled Eponine off of him gently and then rolled onto his back, staring up at the clouds that were still rolling slowly away. He stared at them for a while, seconds, minutes, hours, he didn’t know. All he was aware of was the stickiness of the blood coating his leg and the pain that pulsed in his chest every time he took a breath. There was a slight rustling to his left, so he rolled his head slowly to see if it was Eponine finally waking. It wasn’t.

                “What the hell?” he whispered. Cue the meet-cute. Grantaire pushed himself up on his forearms, squinting his eyes at the almost iridescent creature in front of him. Everything he was wearing, from his converse to his skinny jeans to his trench coat, was black. So black he almost blended into the night around him. His face was a whole other matter to behold; the creature _shined_. Literally, he was like the sun and Grantaire was lost. His bright, fiery blue eyes were framed by blonde ringlets tied back somewhat by a band (black, of course, this guy had a taste) at the base of his neck. His pale white skin was a blaring yet somehow delicate contrast to the almost hypnotic depths of his wardrobe and for the first time in his fifteen years of existence, R felt a twitch in his fingers to paint. There was more, though, to this god before Grantaire than just his bewitching looks, he could tell that already. There was power; an inexplicable air surrounding him that demanded people to follow, to take heed. Grantaire knew he should be afraid, but he couldn’t summon it. Not even when this stunning being began laying his hands on Eponine, murmuring quiet words and attempting to pull her away. Grantaire knew without asking exactly what he was doing to her.

                “Stop!” Grantaire cried out, defying the ache in his throat, “God, _please_! Don’t hurt her! Don’t take her yet, I’m begging you!” He looked up from Eponine then, his achingly blue eyes landing on his own. He almost felt numb, momentarily unaware of his afflictions under the attention of this god, even if it was just for a second before he returned his gaze to Eponine. He’d looked surprised though, before he looked away with a shake of his head. It was like he knew something wasn’t right.

                “She’ll be better this way. You both will be.” He said quietly. Grantaire felt a shudder run through him at the sound of his voice, the dulcet tones perfectly matching the commandeering manner the rest of his being gave off. Grantaire was pretty sure that voice could win over any heart or mind. Unfortunately, Grantaire had always been a stubborn asshole.

                “No!” he gasped out again, suddenly painfully aware of how unassuming he was compared to this guy, “We- NO. Stop touching her, now! I won’t let you take her.” That would’ve sounded a lot more intimidating if Grantaire wasn’t dying on a forest floor and if he hadn’t had to take breaks in between each words to catch his breath. It also would’ve helped if Grantaire was even slightly intimidating ever.

                “And how do you plan on stopping me?” he asked, again, not even looking up at him.

                “Um, the power of persuasion?” Grantaire offered with a smirk, ever the smart-ass. The Apollo looked up at Grantaire. His lips twitched up at the corners in what could almost be described as a smile before Grantaire clutched at his chest again as a particular nasty pain shot through him once more. The gorgeous creature actually had the nerve to look upset over this.

                “Are you… okay?” Grantaire barked out a laugh and then winced. This situation was getting stranger by the second, as he lay bleeding out on the ground.

                “You’re fucking kidding me, right? As I’m pretty sure you already know _, I’m dying_.” Grantaire retorted, lying back down as his head started to swim. He only looked up when he heard the other huff in a way similar to a small child.

                “How are you even _talking_ to me?” he asked angrily, standing up now and well, shit, he got ten points hotter and also ten points scarier, “And don’t get mad at _me_ for doing my job. _You two_ are the ones who were going seventy down a dark and slippery and _winding_ road while _intoxicated_ at eleven o’clock at night! And you haven’t even called a fucking ambulance yet!” He waved towards Grantaire’s pocket where they both knew was a working cellphone. Grantaire slipped his hand into his pocket sheepishly and pulled it out, seeing it was in fact completely intact. It honestly never even crossed his mind to call for help. Huh. Grantaire blanched at his tone as well, suddenly figuring out how to summon that fear he thought was necessary earlier. Apollo seemed to realize this and took a step back, trying to regain his composure. “Okay, let’s hear it.” Grantaire looked up and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Okay and also in pain, yeah whatever. He was dying.

                “What?” he asked, followed by a very attractive fit of wheezing.

                “ _Why_ should I let you guys live? What good have the two of you done on earth? _Persuade me._ ” Oh god, he practically _purred_. If Grantaire wasn’t sure this guy wasn’t human before he sure was now. Still, beneath the bravado, he really did seem like he wanted Grantaire to win, like he wanted him to surprise him. But he unfortunately had absolutely nothing to say to that, and he knew from Apollo’s face that this was his last chance. He looked down at Eponine then down at his own hands and then closed his eyes to think (Apollo’s face was immensely distracting). People had told him thousands of times he was good with words. Grantaire couldn’t count how many times he had talked his way out of expulsions and even jail time once. Mr. Valjean has practically begged him to join debate next year. This was what he was good at. He could do this.

                The thing was, Apollo here wasn’t asking for a lie. He wasn’t asking for smooth words and Grantaire was pretty damn sure he would see through any bullshit he tried to serve up. He was asking Grantaire to sell his own strong points, to seek out the good he has done and serve it up with embellishments. Well, unfortunately Grantaire had a severe case of low self-esteem. That’s putting it nicely; Grantaire thought he was worth nothing, literally nothing special at all. He was negative percent special. So what was he supposed to say to save himself? What was he supposed to say to save _Eponine_?

                “Nothing,” Grantaire whispered and despite Apollo lifting one eyebrow in surprise, he found himself telling the truth for the first time in oh, ten years, “Our lives are worth nothing, Apollo. We haven’t done anything at all of importance, yet. We haven’t been given the chance to.”

                “Oh, what the _hell_ is going on?” Apollo muttered to himself after staring at Grantaire with an unreadable expression for what felt like ten years, “Okay, when people ask, you rolled out of the car, checked to make sure she was still breathing, and called an ambulance. You don’t remember anything after that, you passed out. Got it?” He looked up at Grantaire and cocked an eyebrow at him once he’d placed his hand on Eponine’s forehead and muttered some string of words Grantaire couldn’t understand.

                “Got it, Apollo.” He murmured reflexively. His eyes were glued to Eponine, watching the now much steadier rise and fall of her chest with a feeling of incredulity. Had he really just saved them?

                “Enjolras.” Apollo said with a roll of his eyes as he got up to walk to Grantaire’s side.

                “Huh?”

                “Stop calling me Apollo. My name is Enjolras. I’m not a god, Grantaire.” He sat down next to him and Grantaire was once again shocked by his blinding beauty, the asshole. And also the fact that he’d known his name.

                “You sure about that, Enjolras?” he wanted to say the name a thousand times, infatuated with the way it rolled off of his tongue. He just glared at him and gently put his hand on Grantaire’s chest, momentarily stealing his breath away. Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut against the discomfort.

                “I have to leave some injuries, otherwise this is just going to look suspicious, but I’ll heal the fatal ones. I also cleared up the blood-alcohol levels, _you’re welcome._ Also, you should know I’m going to get in a _shitload_ of trouble for this, so again you’re _fucking_ welcome,” Enjolras said, hands working over Grantaire’s wounds while he was preoccupied with the fascinating and albeit arousing way Enjolras sounded when he was cursing, “And lastly, I _swear_ Grantaire, if you tell _anyone_ about me, I will find you and I will kill you.” Enjolras’ stare forced a shiver down Grantaire’s spine but he still couldn’t stop his lip.

                “Is that the only way I’ll ever see you again? It might be worth it.” Grantaire offered one of his best smiles. It came easier now that his whole body wasn’t on fire. Enjolras glared and it might have a hallucination, but Grantaire swore it was tinged with… fondness? Either way he just shook his head and placed a hand on Grantaire’s forehead, just like he did Ep.

                “Goodbye, Grantaire. Live well.”

                That was the last time Grantaire ever tried to play the hero.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so they meet again.

               The second time he saw him, it really wasn’t Grantaire’s fault. Honestly, he will admit that every other time, it was entirely his fault. But it really wasn’t this time. He and Bahorel were at a party in some obviously shady part of town. Really, they both knew it was more than likely that it was a really bad idea to go to this party, but that sure as hell didn’t stop them. They were both already more drunk than most people around them and their inhibitions were adequately lowered. Oh, it should also be mentioned that this was about two and a half years after the car accident. Two and a half years of Grantaire learning absolutely everything he could about reapers and guardian angels and whatever else Enjolras could have been. Two and a half years of lying to himself and trying pretty damn hard to drink himself into a state where he didn’t have to remember. Two and a half years of lying to Eponine and having no one to talk to about his possible lunacy. For god’s sake, he even joined debate club, in some sick attempt to make something of the life Enjolras had granted him with. It was going well; he was a valued member of the team and he met a bunch of new friends, including Bahorel. Still, though, Grantaire couldn’t help but know it was pointless. Every night he still went home and saw living flesh and blood proof of what he would turn into, passed out on the living room floor, pretending not to cry over a woman who never wanted him. So Grantaire drank. He read classic literature and memorized chemical formulas and chased it with a shot or two of tequila. He researched philosophy and revolutions and practiced geometric and algebraic proofs and he’d finish that night off with a glass or three of vodka. He learned Bach and Chopin and Ray Charles on the piano and jogged a couple miles and then nursed a bottle or two of red wine.

                It made Eponine mad and it made Valjean livid. He wasn’t even throwing his life _completely_ away, because he knew that every night he spent up until two in the morning researching whatever the hell he wanted to, he was making himself better. He once spent six hours teaching himself the basics of the human body, how to sew up a wound, CPR, how to set a broken bone, etc. Because of his complete lack of a social life and his neighbors Wi-Fi, Grantaire knew how to hotwire a car, the basics of computer hacking, almost every single state Senator, five different languages on top of English, and each and every Hamlet soliloquy, among a number of other impressive, albeit, probably pointless things. But he had an ‘unmistakable thirst for learning’ and ‘access to a formidable store of potential’. At least that’s what Valjean told him, _ten thousand times_. It still never sank in though, that maybe if Grantaire stopped balancing out his achievements with obvious fuck-ups, he could possibly do something with his life. So he partied. He drank and he did some drugs (not a lot of drugs, but a little drugs). And that was why he was here, at some sketchy party in the middle of a field where they literally body checked you before you were allowed through the two trees that they designated the doorway. It was probably the sketchiest thing he’d ever been to.

                “You will have sex with no one at this party, Bahorel!” Grantaire said sternly as they both popped open a beer, “There are literally venereal diseases in the air!” They ended up separated pretty quickly, which was usually what happened (it was no big deal; they had a drill where at the end of the night they would text each other their level of drunkenness on a scale of 1-10 and if either of theirs was higher than a 5 they would meet at a pre-decided Dairy Queen so they could get each other home safe). Bahorel was off with some friend of his sister’s named Feuilly and Grantaire was pulled onto the makeshift dance floor by some guy without a shirt and with a lot of tattoos.

                “I could get some tattoos.” Grantaire muttered to himself as he swayed back and forth to the music. It seemed like a marvelous idea at the time, especially since he was into art now. He’d found he had a natural talent for painting in the few months following his accident when all he did was draw sketches and paint portraits of that stupid perfect blonde face. It started out as just a need to see that face again in more than just his head, but now he was addicted to it as much as he was alcohol. Whenever he saw something striking, something that made him look twice, his fingers would literally itch until he put it to paper. The first time he met Jehan, he literally spent hours drawing and re-drawing his intricate braids, the splashes of freckles on his cheeks. He must have ruined fifty dollars’ worth of paint trying to blend the exact shade of his auburn hair and his forest green eyes. Yeah, needless to say he had a bit of an obsessive personality, prone to addictive tendencies. But a lot of artists had tattoos, right? It just made sense for him to get a couple. Or like twenty.

                After dancing for a little too long, the beat and the smoke getting to his head, he decided to take a walk away from the crowds for a minute. In retrospect, this was a really stupid thing to do and he was probably just _asking_ to be mauled by a bear or possessed by a malevolent spirit or something. He should’ve known; he’d watched every episode of _Supernatural_.  But luckily that didn’t happen. No, instead he stumbled upon a body slumped down about a five minutes’ walk away from the noise of the party and into the sweet silence of the trees.

                “You won’t convince me to save this one.” A voice said, startling Grantaire out of his thoughts as he stared at the unmoving body. His heart started beating out of his chest as he watched his Apollo walk- no that’s a horrible word for it. Walking is what mortals do; Enjolras _glided_ over to the boy lying just underneath the tree, its branches hanging low and bare. Grantaire momentarily forgot how to use words, in any of the six languages he was now practiced in. He also seriously thought back to the party, wondering if he had accidently ingested any sort of hallucinogenic.

                “Are you… actually here?” Grantaire asked, walking forward slowly and running his fingers through his hair. It was a lot longer than the last time, the black curls falling onto his forehead. Grantaire had aged, he had changed. Enjolras hadn’t. He still had his long blonde curls pinned at the back of his neck; he still wore all black and he still radiated power and, Grantaire noticed now, _youth_. Isn’t that ironic?

                “I could ask the same of you.” Enjolras mumbled bitterly.

                “What’s that supposed to mean?”

                “It means I fucking gave you a life back and you’re _wasting away in a tub of wine and cocaine_ ,” okay, so yeah it was a little disarming that Enjolras happened to use as example two of Grantaire’s biggest vices… was he checking up on him? Grantaire didn’t know whether to be flattered or horrified, “Is _this_ the potential you told me about? Are these the _chances_ you spoke of?” He seemed legitimately angry and Grantaire immediately shifted into defensive mode.     

                “Hey, first of all: _fuck you._ Second of all: who the _fuck_ do you think you are? You have no right to tell me how to live my life-”

                “I hardly call this ‘living a life’.” Enjolras retorted with a scoff.

                “ _Fuck. You._ ” Grantaire snarled, “You have no right! You know, it was a pretty fucked up thing for you to do, leaving me with no fucking idea who you are. No idea if I’ve lost my _fucking mind_ or not! Maybe that’s why I turned to narcotics, huh, ever thought of that?”

                “1. Alcohol is not a narcotic. 2. We both know that you drank and did drugs _before_ you met me. 3. You use the word _fuck_ a lot. And 4. I have absolutely no obligation to give you any clue who I am. You do realize that I _saved your life_ , right? You should be _thanking me_ , you unappreciative asshole.” He started muttering words that he now recognized as vaguely Latin over the body as Grantaire struggled for words.

                “Maybe you would be able to formulate an argument and show me all the skills you’ve built up in the debate team in the past two years if you weren’t so _fucking drunk_ right now.” Enjolras said smugly and Grantaire _really_ wanted to punch the stupid smirk off his face (he’d taken up boxing; he might be able to do it).

                “You use the word _fuck_ a lot.” Grantaire mumbled back. He sat down abruptly (he was NOT pouting) and watched Enjolras work with a huff. As much as he was growing to hate the pretentious asshole, Grantaire still had to admit he was probably the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Grantaire’s fingers ached to do more than just paint; he wanted to trace his fingers over every inch of him, memorizing the whole of his perfectly sculpted frame. He _really_ wanted to run his fingers through that perfect hair, to tangle them in his curls and tug, exposing that long pale neck to Grantaire’s lips to-

                “Are you just gonna sit there are stare at me the whole time?” Enjolras’ voice pulled Grantaire reluctantly out of his reverie. He ran his hand over his face, trying to push away his blaringly inappropriate thoughts for another time.

                “ _Absolutely_ , Apollo. I’ve got nowhere better to be.” He said with a wink, just to piss him off further. It worked.

                “Don’t call me that.”      

                “Sorry Apollo- I mean, Enjolras. Sorry Enjolras.” He knew he was being an asshole. He just couldn’t find it in him to stop, preferring to watch Enjolras’ eyes narrow and his cheeks flush slightly. It made him seem almost human. Grantaire relished in it.

                “Asshole.” Enjolras whispered with a roll of his eyes before returning to his work. It couldn’t have been five minutes of Enjolras working and Grantaire unabashedly staring before he placed his fingers on the boy’s forehead, exactly like that night two and a half years ago. Unlike then, though, once he did he promptly vanished into thin air.

                “Shit!” Grantaire shot up, causing a vicious head rush to force him to stagger back and brace himself against a tree, clutching his head. Once the pain subsided, he frantically looked around, searching for any sign of the blonde. He startled when his eyes once again landed on the body propped against the tree. Its presence should have bothered him. He was dead after all, and it was pretty obvious. The waxy skin and vacant eyes were enough of a giveaway that the whole scene should’ve been giving Grantaire a bad feeling, but he just wanted Enjolras. It barely even registered that he should be bothered, let alone did he actually take the time to try to care.

                “That’s how it’s _supposed_ to happen by the way, in case you were wondering.” Enjolras said from behind him, causing him to startle and turn around quickly, “No need for the panic. Souls are _supposed_ to follow me.” He reached down to slide the corpse’s eyes shut before turning back to Grantaire.

                “So you’re a reaper, right?”

                “Yeah, that’s probably the closest thing to it.”

                “Is that not the word you guys use?”

                “We don’t really have names for ourselves.”

                “Oh.”

                “Yeah.” Enjolras just stared at him and Grantaire was almost content to just stand there.

                “Is that all you’re going to tell me?” he asked, knowing he was probably pushing his luck. Enjolras sighed and ran both hands through his hair (Grantaire was pretty sure he could die now, just having seen that, by the way).                                    

                “Yes, Grantaire, shit. I don’t even know why I’m still here.” Grantaire looked down and toed at a rock by his shoe. He wanted to know more. He also wanted to pin Enjolras to a tree and ravish him.

                “Would it be presumptuous to say it’s my irresistible charm?” Enjolras just looked at him with a quirked lip and a raised eyebrow. He was going to paint that look tomorrow, probably twenty times or so. “Yeah, I figured. Can I just ask one more question though?”

                “I guess.” Enjolras looked skeptical.

                “How did you know I joined debate club?” Enjolras barked out a laugh and shook his head incredulously.

                “I’ve checked in every once in a while.”

                “Why?” Grantaire took a step towards him, not one-hundred percent thinking his actions through.

                “To make sure you didn’t tell anyone about me?” he didn’t move away so Grantaire took another step. Their toes were flush now.

                “Why does that sound like a question?” Grantaire teased and Enjolras looked up at him and quickly licked his lips. He hadn’t realized before he was so much taller than him, at least two or three inches. It gave Grantaire a little more courage. Enjolras’ mouth opened and closed as if he was going to voice a reply but couldn’t come up with the words and a little thrill ran though Grantaire at the realization that he rendered his Apollo speechless.

                “Grantaire…” he whispered as his eyes fell to Grantaire’s lips, “This is _not_ smart.”

                “Why not?” he asked. It took all of his will-power not to close the gap between their lips as he brought his hand up to touch Enjolras’ neck, rubbing his thumb across the length of his jaw. Enjolras just shook his head and groaned before pressing his lips chastely to Grantaire’s. He was pretty sure he was going to burst from unresolved sexual tension and Enjolras tentative hand on his hip wasn’t helping. It briefly flashed in his mind that whatever Enjolras was, he was admittedly not human. Grantaire considered this and still could fathom no possible qualms to be had, not when Enjolras groaned into his mouth and leaned more firmly against him. No, in fact his qualms could have been said to actually _decrease_ in number as he took that opportunity to steer Enjolras backwards, pushing him not too gently up against one of the thousand trees surrounding them. It took about two seconds of tongues and panting for Grantaire to cave and tangle his hands in that blonde hair and do exactly what he’d wanted to since that night two years ago (and every night in between; heyoo). Enjolras legitimately whimpered at the sensation and when Grantaire’s lips hit his throat and sucked, Grantaire was pretty sure the only thing keeping Enjolras up was the other boy’s death-grip on the his shoulders.

                “Ahh!” Enjolras gasped suddenly, pushing Grantaire off of him with more strength than Grantaire thought he had at that moment. Grantaire shook his head, confused and dizzy with lust, but he kept his distance. “This- I have to go, Grantaire, I’m so sorry.” He pushed past Grantaire, but, panicked, he caught his wrist and tugged him to his chest.

                “No. Enjolras please, don’t! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you, I’m _sorry_ -”

                “No! _Shit,_ don’t apologize for that, please, it’s just… I’m… you’re… _we’re_ dangerous,” he said, gesturing to the two of them, “You shouldn’t even be able to see me. This is just not smart. Its better if we leave this alone.” He sounded vaguely as if he was repeating someone else’s words and Grantaire wanted to cry. And punch him. And hug him tight and never let go. He had a lot of conflicting emotions at the moment.

                “Damn it, Apollo,-” Enjolras cut him off, _again._

“No, Grantaire. I’m sorry.” He placed one last kiss to Grantaire’s lips and then stepped out of his arms. He felt vaguely like he’d been punched in the stomach at the loss. “ _Stop_ coming to these parties.” He scolded almost fondly before turning around and starting to leave.

                “Apollo?” Grantaire said as Enjolras was walking away. He turned around and cocked an eyebrow, “Call me R.” he smiled and laughed and Grantaire was _so_ lost.

                “Only if you stop calling me Apollo.”  


	3. Chapter 3

              Grantaire sighed in relief as he clicked the lock behind him, finally ending his shift for the night. He’d been working in Feuilly’s tattoo parlor for almost a year now to pay for the apartment he and Eponine and her little brother Gavroche were living in now. It wasn’t miserable work at all. He liked being able to create (even if it was on random people’s bodies) and he was good at it. Damn good at it, actually. Once he was certain everything was locked up, he lit a cigarette and took a long drag before beginning his walk home. He’d taken up smoking just after he’d seen Enjolras last, about a year ago. It probably wasn’t exactly what he was aiming for, but it was better than Grantaire snorting coke, right? It was by no means a good habit, but Grantaire figured it was the lesser of two evils. And if Enjolras had a problem with it, the he could damn well come and tell Grantaire that himself. Not that he ever would. It had been another year since their kiss and still nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not that Grantaire had allowed himself hope that anything would happen. Any idea that surfaced that maybe somehow Enjolras would want to see him, Grantaire promptly drowned with wine, logic, and _it’s better if we leave this alone_. It was easy at first, to try and forget. He’d had a shitload of tests and art school applications and debate finals to throw himself into, but once that faded he was back to wine and cigarettes. He tried to do better, he really did. He didn’t drink as much anymore. Well, he didn’t drink as much of a variety anymore and he partied much less. He really only even talked to about five or ten people anymore. He momentarily went through a phase where he just fucked a lot of hot blonde people, but that ended in about a month. It barely even took off the edge. If anything it just became more obvious that he would never have what he actually wanted. 

                So he just worked. Well, he worked, he drank, and he painted. He always painted. He also spent a lot of time at the gym, with Bahorel, who was a boxing instructor. That was probably the most constructive of his addictions, even if it did often involve beating the shit out of someone. It pushed him, made him stronger and Grantaire was also a fan of the endorphin kick that came at the end of a workout.   

                “Don’t fucking push me, kid.” Grantaire heard an unfamiliar voice say as he took another long drag from his cigarette and put his hand in his pocket to pull out his phone. He quickly changed his mind and grabbed his switchblade though, keeping it in his pocket but his hand gripped firmly around it.

                “Then back the _fuck_ up.” Now that voice Grantaire knew. It was Montparnasse, a friend of Eponine’s from high school. The kid was a sketchy fucker, into some shit that even Grantaire was iffy about, but he was good to Jehan when he first tried to leave his parents. Grantaire was pretty sure the kid was in love with the poet, but he wasn’t one hundred percent sure. He hadn’t talked to Jehan in a couple of weeks. Correspondence with a lot of his old friends became considerably harder when they went off to college and he opted to stay behind to help support Ep and Gav.

                Grantaire walked a little slower as he passed the alleyway the two were hiding in. The older one had ‘Parnasse shoved up against a wall and they were talking quieter now, so Grantaire couldn’t hear exactly what was going on , but he knew it wasn’t particularly friendly. It all felt ridiculously cliché, like some sort of ‘50s movie; the damsel in distress being assaulted in the shadows, possibly lit by one dim streetlight and the rest of the world in black and white as Grantaire swoops in to save him. Yeah, that wouldn’t be happening. He was just going to make sure the kid didn’t get raped and then get the hell out of there. Who knows what kind of shady shit Montparnasse managed to get himself into.

                “Get off of me!” the kid screamed before the man placed a hand roughly over his mouth and spun him around. _Shit._ Grantaire thought; he’d really hoped this wouldn’t pan out to a situation where he would actually try to help. He skidded to a stop and turned on the balls of his feet to run into the alley. Shoving the guy firmly, he placed himself between him and Montparnasse as he pointed his knife out in front of him. It wasn’t a particularly defensive pose, it would be easy to guard against if he actually lunged forwards, but Grantaire wasn’t planning on actually killing the guy.

                “You should really get outta here.” Grantaire growled. His voice had gotten considerably more intimidating over the years, something he prided himself over. He would deign to say even Enjolras would be impressed with the candor of his threat. It certainly made the guy think twice. Unfortunately though, this asshole was also a fucking idiot, so he leaned in a little closer, eyes on the kid, to, Grantaire assumed, whisper some sort of threat to ‘Parnasse. But the second he took the slightest step towards them, Montparnasse surprised Grantaire by grabbing his arm, the one holding the knife by the way, and pushed it forward, ramming his knife right into the guy’s chest.

                “What the _fuck_ , ‘Parnasse?” Grantaire screamed as he looked back over his shoulder. The kid just smiled and moved his hand farther down Grantaire’s arm in what was almost a caress before gripping his hand fisted over the hilt of the blade and twisting, so the guy was definitely dead. That was when Grantaire decided it was probably a good idea to drop his hand and push Montparnasse the fuck off of him.

                “What the hell was that?” he demanded, pushing him against the alley wall with his forearm at his throat.

                “Sorry, but you weren’t gonna do it yourself, so I offered a little encouragement.” The kid smirked at him and Grantaire pushed him harder against the wall. He spluttered and clawed at Grantaire’s arm as he struggled for air. Grantaire let it go on for a moment longer, the anger burning up inside of him, before he pulled off of him abruptly, letting the kid slide down to a crouch position, back still against the wall. R ran his hands through his hair, tugging hard at the ends to try and ground himself.

                “You’re one demented motherfucker, you know that kid?” Grantaire said as he turned around to look at the body again. He gasped when he did, seeing a figure draped in black working over the body; a figure draped in black that distinctively wasn’t Enjolras.

                “That asshole has been following me for _weeks_ , I should probably thank you-”

                “Get the fuck out of here, Montparnasse.” Grantaire growled, not yet looking away from the figure crouching over the body Grantaire had moments ago lodged a knife into.

                “What?” Montparnasse asked incredulously, slowly standing up and rubbing a hand tentatively over his neck.

                “I said _get. Out.”_ Grantaire turned around and glared at Montparnasse for a minute before stepping forward threateningly with a growl. The kid shook his head and ran; R honestly had no idea where the feral attitude came from but he felt sort of bad-ass. That is, until he realized he had to turn around. He did so slowly, and when he completely faced the new reaper, the guy was looking at him now. Before he hadn’t even given Grantaire a slight acknowledgement that he knew he was there. Now Grantaire was subject to the most disarmingly passive aggressive stare he’d ever been on the receiving end of. This guy was fucking scary. They just stood there and stared at each other for a good moment. Logically, Grantaire knew there had to be other reapers in the world. People died like every two seconds or something; there was no way Enjolras could be there to collect all of those souls. Grantaire cleared his throat and the guy just raised an eyebrow. Good God he was intimidating.

                “Um, hi?” Grantaire offered, immediately feeling an idiot.

                “Are you going to call an ambulance? You probably should, since you just killed a man.”  He returned his attentions to the body in front of him, but before he continued his ministrations he tugged the knife out of the body, considered it for a moment and the wiped the blood off before placing it in an inside jacket pocket. Yeah, by the way, this guy was wearing a three piece suit, all black of course, and tailored literally to perfection. The guy looked straight out of a GQ magazine from his perfectly messy sandy brown hair to the stubble scattered across his sculpted jaw to the perfect lines of his designer suit. Even the black-rimmed glasses he wore seemed painfully classy.

                “I’m about to leave so if you have any questions, make it quick, Grantaire.” He said and he sounded annoyed. Why didn’t this guy like him? _Maybe because you just assisted in murder_.

                “How do you know my name?” he asked and yeah, he probably should’ve gone a little bigger on his question, but oh well.

                “I’m good friends with Enjolras.” Grantaire stood up a little straighter at the mention of that name.

                “Oh? How is he?” Again, stupid question, but he had to know. The reaper just narrowed his eyes at Grantaire and shook his head slightly.

                “He’s fine. He doesn’t cover this area of the city, if that’s what you were wondering.” He seemed to be surveying Grantaire and it made him really uneasy, so he just shoved his hands in his pockets as he rocked back on his heels and nodded his head.

                “So you guys have like, boundaries and shit?” his lips quirked slightly, but something told Grantaire that this guy wasn’t laughing with him. He was definitely laughing at him.

                “Yes, we split the city between three of us.”

                “The _three_ of you?”

                “Yes; Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and I.”

                “Who’s Courfeyrac?”

                “ _I’m_ Courfeyrac!” A voice said in a sing-song from behind Grantaire and he may or may not have made a noise resembling a squeal. The new guy just smiled and laughed, a nice sound but Grantaire couldn’t really appreciate it yet because his heart was about to beat out of his chest. Courfeyrac bounded over to the other reaper, sitting down behind him and draping his arms over his shoulders.

                “Don’t mind Combeferre, here.” Courfeyrac placed his chin on the top of _Combeferre’_ s head and Grantaire stifled a laugh when at the look on the more stoic reaper’s face, “He’s just bitter because he thinks you’re bad for Enjolras and that nothing good can come of your whirlwind romance and blah blah blah.” This guy was equally as attractive as the other two, but in much more of a likeable sort of way. While Enjolras looked like a Greek god and Combeferre looked like he just walked out of a sexy librarian convention, Courfeyrac, in his black boots, skinny jeans, and Henley looked like he could be literally anyone’s best friend. This was mostly due to his disgustingly endearing curly brown hair, wide smile, and _dimples_. Yeah, he was a fully grown man who actually had dimples on his cheeks and made it look good. His words still left a sinking feeling in Grantaire’s chest, though.

                “Well, I’m not exactly wrong, am I?” Combeferre grumbled before placing a hand on the body’s forehead and poofing away in reaper-fashion. Courfeyrac fell forward with a slight _oof_ and a mumbled curse before standing up to smile at Grantaire.

                “Sorry about that, Grantaire,” he said with a smile that Grantaire couldn’t help but mimic. He extended out his hand in greeting and said, “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve only heard Enjolras talk about you for, oh, three and a half years, now?” he laughed again and Grantaire barked out a laugh as well.

                “He told you about me?” he asked incredulously before realizing Courfeyrac’s hand was still being offered. He hurried to grab it, “Oh, sorry. It’s nice to meet you, too. And please, call me R.”

                “Yeah, Enjolras told me about that. I love a good pun, but I didn’t want to use that nickname and then you think I was presumptuous for assuming we were already friends or something. Anyway, I’m sorta proud of that, R. it took you three and a half years to allow Enjolras to call you that. It only took me three minutes.” He actually giggled at that and Grantaire just smiled along. This guy was a riot. “So, ‘Ferre wasn’t _too_ bad to you, was he?”

                “Nah, I’m tough. I can handle a little intimidation. It’s just… if you don’t mind me asking, why is it such a bad idea for me to … see Enjolras?” it was easier to talk to Courfeyrac, so the questions came rolling into Grantaire’s mind easier, but this one seemed most important. The reaper offered him a small smile.

                “We don’t really know. All we know is it’s frowned upon by authorities and before you ask, no, I can’t tell you who those authorities are, that gives away too many surprises.” Grantaire frowned (okay, he probably pouted a little bit too, but luckily if he did Courfeyrac didn’t say anything).

                “Well there had to be something I can do? Damn it, Courf, he’s all I think about.” Grantaire kicked at a rock about his feet, not wanting to meet the reaper’s eyes while he felt like his were about to water. Courf smiled at him warmly and placed a hand on his shoulder.

                “It’s not really my place to say anything, I’m sorry, R. You’ll have to talk to Enjolras about this.” He said kindly but Grantaire just laughed bitterly.

                “How do I do that? It’s been a year and he hasn’t made any attempts to talk to me!”

                “I’m sorry, R,” Courf said, and Grantaire did believe him, but it didn’t help much, “I’ll try talking to him.” Grantaire just rolled his eyes and shook his head and Courf’s eyes got a little sad, “You know, there are legends of reapers bonding with mortals.” He offered with a shrug, “No documented cases yet, but it isn’t unheard of.”

                “Bonding?” Grantaire asked and Courf rolled his eyes.

                “Good God, Enjolras is an asshole,” he muttered and Grantaire couldn’t help but agree in the moment, “I’ll talk to him. I promise.” Just then Combeferre popped back and tugged Courfeyrac’s hand.

                “Have you called that ambulance yet?” Combeferre asked with a smug smile and Grantaire laughed.

                “No, I don’t really fancy getting arrested just yet.” Courfeyrac laughed and Combeferre’s lips twitched slightly.

                “I got rid of the knife. Just say you stumbled over the body; they’ll have no reason to suspect you.” He said logically and Grantaire just nodded and took a couple steps backwards before waving awkwardly.

                “Well, it was nice to meet you both.”

                “You too, R!” Courf said with a wave and a blown kiss before they both vanished, no goodbye from Combeferre.

                “Fuck this.” Grantaire muttered to himself as he walked away from the scene, with about twenty more questions and no more answers. Oh, and he also never did call that ambulance.


End file.
